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Inspirational

Inspirational

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I thought perfection was the goal. I was young and naive.
Think for yourself; don’t rely on me; be aware of G-d; people are more important than things; don’t waste your precious energy on worry . . .
I knew that the way I was feeling was not the kind of parent I wanted to be. I wanted to rediscover the enjoyment in parenting.
For the first time since my marriage almost five years ago, I embarked on an airplane journey alone.
A Mom Reflects on Change
Gleeful, you’d pounce on the toothpaste, shampoo, shaving cream—somehow you’d inevitably find the food coloring, too.
I can relate to my daughter’s occasional all-or-nothing attitude.
I watched him as he danced, admiring his strong sense of self and sweet inhibition, appreciating his spirit.
The night I was driven to confront myself, I was standing in front of a room filled to capacity.
I was the first Jew that she ever met. She was the first German that I ever met.
“I have been searching for laughter and joy and happiness all day,” said the queen.
People constantly ask me about what happened, and how I reacted when I saw it.
There is a lot of pressure, from within and from without, to be the perfect mother, or an excellent mother, when being even just a good mom seems elusive and confounding.
How Israelis love kids, anyone’s kids. The country is a free-for-all for the youngest set, something I truly appreciated only once I started bringing my own children there.
Five to ten minutes of stopping what I am doing and refocusing. Five to ten minutes a day of sitting or walking and listening, really listening. Five to ten minutes a day of connecting. How sweet, how nice! Is the stutter a problem, or is it a gift?
How do I manage as the mother of a big family? You might think I ignore the little things, keep my composure, remain calm, overlook the small infractions, and always “let it go.” How else can a large family function?
I bought two baskets of the hard kiwis, thinking that within a few days they would be ripe and ready to eat. I was wrong.
I observe a mom next to me, looking over at her son caressing a dog. He is two; the dog is not his own.
How do I express gratitude? How do I feel the appropriate amount? How do I make sense of the fact that two years later I don’t hold her close often enough, or feel sufficient thanks in her presence?
Okay, so maybe I was looking a little harried that day . . .
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